Singer
by Gryphonic
Summary: Set 200 years & 4 generations after the Battle of Endingfire. In an era of instability, three unlikely heroes must find their place in life and in the history of their world. Chapter 3 is up. Please do Read & Review
1. The Bad Day

WARNING: This first chapter may contain violence that is disturbing to some. This is my first attempt at a Firebringer fanfic, though I've long been a fan of the books. At the moment even I do not know how the story will work out eventually, but I do hope it works out well.

The story is of an age of turbulence that erupts 400 years after the events of the final book. Overcrowding has created much fighting among the gryphon clans, sending refugess flying across the Mare's Back and causing a group of them to try and establish a colony at the edge of the Pan Woods. The pans are disturbed by this intrusion, and the ecosystem is unbalanced by the wingcat's predation habits.The unicorns of the Hallow Hills find in turn that their annual Summer trek to the beaches of the Singing Sands is disrupted by the tensions. When a band of two-foots come exploring inland on the backs of their _daya_, looking to expand their range beyond the City of Fire, all hell threatens to break loose in the Pan Woods and spill over onto the great Plains.

Into the chaos of this new age come three unlikely heroes - Tella, a young Plainsdweller singer; Salvor, Prince of the Moondancers; and Wirramishar, a vagrant gryphon tercel bereft of purpose and homeland. United by a prophecy and a common purpose, they must somehow find a way to bridge the gap between the races and restore balance to their troubled world.

_(**Disclaimer**: The Firebringer Trilogy and all names/characters/material included in the books is the property of Meredith Ann Pierce and belongs to her. I didn't invent this wonderful and complex world, nor do I claim credit for it. However, the storyline and characters in this fanfic, with the exception of those named in the books, are copyright to me. Please do not steal them.)_

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She stood in silence.

Blood sprayed the ground at her forehooves. The pard before her raised its blood-rusty muzzle, hissed at her through crimson-splattered teeth, long and sharp. The reddened forepaws, claws still extended, lay clenched over bright orange hide, splotched maroon in ever-widening blotches. It was the orange pelt of a unicorn lying, splay-legged and prone, in the tall grass. The eyes were closed, the long graceful neck was thrown back at an unnatural angle, the black skewer horn tipped red.

She stared, and did not move.

The cat ripped red flesh from the dead mare's gaping chest wound and swallowed whole. She shuddered at the sight, ears flattened. The pard looked at her again as she moved. Its feral yellow eyes narrowed. It spat as it clambered forward, and the orange body beneath moved in a mockery of life. It snarled, the full-throated snarl of an angry grass cat.

_Why do you watch, little one? I have my kill, I do not need you. _

She shuddered again, but her legs were frozen. She could not move. It was a dream. It was not real. She stared at the pard. It stared back at her A long thin slash ran along the ragged fur of one shoulder where the mare must have struck in the desperate fight for survival. The cat hissed again, a laughing hiss. It pounced in a single lightning leap. She shied, still half-bemused even as the rust-red claws reached for her. Pain erupted down her exposed shoulder. She wheeled away and forced her frozen hindquarters into a bolting gallop, her mind still in stasis though her whole frame was now in flight as fast as her spindly legs could carry her. She heard the cat yowl after her, returning to its kill. 

_Yes, run little one. Run!_

She ran, but it was a forced run. She drove each stride to move forward as it came, breath gasping through her nostrils, her eyes seeing nothing but blood, the gaping wound, the pard snarling over her dam's body. There was no time, no past or present, nothing: only the carnage of the field turning crimson and orange. She ran with no destination and no purpose, unthinking.

She ran until dark shapes loomed out of the tall grass before her. She crashed into one and fell over, and only as pain lanced up her shoulder with the impact did she realize there was red all over her left leg and withers. She scrabbled for footing, her hooves found ground, and she stumbled onto her feet. There were voices, whinnies of surprise, a whistle of horror, and someone was nuzzling her bloodied wither. She shied away and tried to bolt again. A large solid something stepped into her path as she did, brought her to a shuddering halt.

"Here, here lass, be still." She looked up, her glazed blue eyes only half-seeing the tall midnight-blue stallion with his streaked electric-blue mane and kindly brown eyes. He leaned forward before she could shy away again, and breathed softly on her muzzle. The warmth of the contact halted her up short, and she stood shivering. Shadows at her feet told her there were others nearby. She turned to look at them. She saw only wavering shades, unfocused shadows. One of them threw his head back in dizzying motion. "Why, it's Clouded Sun! She was with Grain this morning, going to the water hole." 

The sound of the words brought her back a long way. She looked up at them again, and she saw clearly now that there were three others besides her midnight blue companion. Two red stallions, one dark maroon and the other pale crimson, and a smaller golden mare. It was the dark maroon that had spoken. The mare was glancing down at her.

"Clouded Sun? Grain's filly…?"

"Well," the pale crimson stallion tossed his head nervously, "Where's Grain then?"

"And what happened to you?" the golden mare's tone was gentle as she knelt to extend her nose to the trembling filly, "That's a nasty scratch, that is."

The mare's eyes were cool, like a smooth pool beneath the sky; but her voice quivered as she spoke. The filly knew, suddenly, that the golden mare was afraid. And as she tried to answer, the whole world abruptly came crashing in on her in a roar of sound and blood and confusion. She screamed, thin and shrill and full of pain; screamed like she had not screamed while she stood beside her dam as the pard devoured her. They told her afterward that she had cried herself hoarse beside the tall blue stallion, who had stood steadfast as rock and patient as water while she pressed herself into his side and shrilled. The golden mare who was his sister had stood on her other side and cleaned her wound with soft, comforting noises. While the two red stallions, both half-brothers to each other, stood guard with wary ears and hindlimbs tensed to hear the thin, horrible squeals of despair.

They said she had gone quiet after nearly an hour, body and spirit spent with pain, blood loss and exhaustion. She crumpled to the ground, and the golden mare lay down gently beside her to hold her. The blue stallion stood guard over them, while the pale crimson hovered at watch nearby. His dark maroon half-brother left to find others. By evening there were three other unicorns with them. One was a healer. One was her father.

Her father was a dark gray stallion with black stockings that ran up to his belly. His eyes were the colour of amber, his frame rangy and sturdy, his voice soft and lilting like the singer he was. The golden mare shifted back as he came forward, and he knelt to push his muzzle gently against hers. She awoke at the touch and stared at him. His breath ticked her eyes as he spoke.

"Clouded Sun, listen to me: I am here, I am here…"

Her ears pricked forward at the sound. She lunged forward, slipped on her wounded leg, fell awkwardly against him. He arched his head over her neck and held her close, comforting. With his singer's gift he began to hum, slow and gentle. The steady beat of his heart and the deep rumble of his breathing against her shoulder soothed her.

"Still, my Clouded Sun, be still…"

She lifted her head, poking him on the underjaw as she did so, her voice small but certain, and audible only to her sire.

"My name is Tella."

He was quiet, and it seemed to her that he had frozen. Whether in shock or in resignation she could not tell. He let out a breath, and touched her softly on her foreleg.

"It is well, then, Tella. Till you find in yourself a new name, that is what I shall call you, and all others."

She heard the mare draw in a hiss of breath. Somewhere nearby, someone else stirred uneasily. The yearling filly called Tella, meaning "lost", leaned against her father with his low, soft humming, and slept while the healer tended her wound, and the others stood watch in the creeping darkness of dusk.


	2. Memory

She was two when she lost her dam to the pard, and she thought then that she would never forget it. There were indeed nightmares the first few nights, but strange though it seemed, within a week of the tragedy she hardly remembered it. It was an old pain, an instinctive fear of rustling grass and pard scent; and in herself she soon found no name for that day, or that memory. The wound on her shoulder healed and became a thin scar running from wither to knee. Her mother she remembered as a touch of warmth and a calming scent; all else was a blur. She had gotten lost, she had never found her dam again. That was all there was to recall.

She found, soon enough, that she could not recall even how the scar on her right shoulder had come about. She found it preferable.

The years passed, and the filly grew with them. Her bones lengthened and her muscles formed beneath the pied orange and gray pelt. Her mane became long and flowy, its hues a lovely matching of tones of amber and stone shades. She was like her father in shape, long-limbed and lithe. There were those who said that her mother had been heavier, more a strapping mare of power and girth - but she scarcely recalled her mother's form or shape. When she tried, she saw only a blaze of orange and crimson in her mind's eyes. Yet her eyes were like her dam's eyes, the colour of azure-clear sky, and the horn that now sprouted from her forelock was spiral black, like all her kind.

She followed her father, Hawk Wings, as he made his way back and forth across the Plains. A singer of the Free Peoples is rarely left unoccupied, and though Hawk Wings was by no means the greatest of the Plainsdweller singers, there was much a small filly tagging along behind him could learn. That she did, and when she was not following her sire she stayed with Cobalt, the midnight blue stallion who had supported her so patiently when she first ran out of the grass into him that fateful day. The older male had lost his half-sister to a pack of wild dogs just the year before, and out of that memory he took the little filly under his wing like an older brother would.

Cobalt's dam had been a Hill-born unicorn, but had left the Hallow Hills to pursue a life of freedom on the Plains of the great Mare's Back. From her the midnight-blue stallion had inherited heavily feathered fetlocks, and a stocky build that, though smaller than the average uniorn, was powerful. At least one of Cobalt's recent ancestors had been a Scout of Halla, that was plain to see. His Hill-born mother, however, had also passed down skills of warfare honed over countless generations of Hill-born warriors that proved invaluable against pards and wild dogs. He was a willing teacher, and Tella learnt eagerly all that he could teach her at her age. He was a patient instructor and a gentle minder, and the young filly came to trust him as she trusted her sire.

It was well-known that she had changed her name on the day she gained the deep scar down her shoulder, and it was an open secret that she kept her full name secret. That was a topic of discussion in itself: unlike the unicorns of the Hallow Hills, the Plainsdwellers rarely had secret names. Still, all who knew Tella were aware that the name she bore openly was incomplete, and only she knew what else was in it. She was happy with her life, and its forgetfulness, but those around her who did remember the tragedy noted the changes. They said she was different: quieter, more aloof. They said, for the most part, that she closed in on herself after her dam's death. She was a loner amongst the youngsters, remaining aloof even at the Gathers. But no colt would gainsay the child of Gentle Grain to be unbeautiful, with her lovely gray and amber pied markings, and the elegant flow of her orange streaked mane. The scar on her right shoulder, vivid though it was, did little to mar that beauty. The other youngsters admired her, yet they feared the silence that seemed to hold her apart.

Tella ignored their cool pity and the silence of their eyes when they looked at her. To her, the world had not closed but opened. It had grown horizons she had never seen before, and developed possibilities she had never imagined. It had depths she had never encountered. It had horrors she had never been told of.

Yet the singer's blood that she had taken from her sire did not cool. When she chose to sing, her songs were enchanting and her rhythms unmatched for any her age. The thing, of course, was that she rarely sang any longer. The love of song and lyric seemed to have died, or else was hidden away in a place that was unsearchable, and unfindable. She found it strange at first, but eventually thought it strangely preferable.

Despite what others whispered, she did not miss the songs: she was busy exploring the horizons of her new, wide world, figuring out its depths and probing into its secrets. She had learnt harshly that the beloved Mare's Back was a place of deadly beauty, that the wind was merciless and the grass itself treacherous. She set herself to understanding it, to hearing the words not spoken, and seeing the things others missed. She strayed often as she grew, to the despair of Hawk Wings and Cobalt, and liked spending long days, sometimes weeks, on her own wandering the grasslands. But despite their fretting, she proved well that she had an uncanny instinct for avoiding trouble (pards in particular), and in time they let her come and go as she wished. She would survive, she told herself, though she did not quite know why: she would learn the ways of death, and survive.

She was, little though she knew it, learning a way through a wild world that might someday lead her back to a memory of blood, of death, of terror.


	3. Wing Cat

Whether through caution, or coincidence, or sheer luck, Tella was six when she next saw a pard.

She was half-grown, freshly bearded, and her winter coat was just beginning to peel off with the advent of spring. The black feather of a raven that she often wore tangled into her mane brushed across her neck as she loped easily along the lower slope of a hillock. Tangled beside the black feather, however, was a newer one – the long golden bronze primary of an eagle that she had found only recently. She was on one of her solo escapades, which had become more frequent as she gained in statue, strength and confidence.

She rarely needed reason to travel alone, but this round she had a purpose. At the last Gather she had stepped into the dancing with a lightness of foot that surprised even herself. She was usually reticent and guarded, even in the heat and flurry of the longdance; and despite the crush of the Gather few ever dared stray within a pace of her along the lines, save perhaps her sire or Cobalt. It was strength of will and a certain quiet aloofness that held her apart. She had found, not long after her dam's death, that she had nothing in herself to give to others, and so she was often reluctant to open up and enjoy the company of other unicorns.

But this time it had been different. Perhaps it was the sense of winter ebbing into spring, the scent of new snowdrops dotting the barren ground, the feel of warm wind beginning to flow from the south. Or maybe it was the delight of seeing her beard hairs sprout as she attained her half-grown form, even as she noted her limbs were slender but maturing. Whatever it was, she had taken more joy in the dancing than ever before, and had even found it in herself to throw back her head and laugh when the pattern of steps grew complicated. What she did not expect, however, was that her newfound confidence would not escape notice. So she had been taken by surprise when she found another alongside her who was neither Cobalt nor Hawk Wings.

The newcomer had been a colt her age, with a pelt the colour of glossy bronze and a wild mane streaked red and silver, tangled with the feathers of bluebirds and hawks. He was courteous and polite, and though he introduced himself, Tella had already known him from afar by the unique sequence of whitish spots that ran separately over his neck crest and flanks. He was Firestar, the child of Goldrunner and Dawnflame. He was a fair dancer, a match for her own agility and pace. And though she had seen him no more after his final bow to her as the dancing ended that night, she wondered now what had been the purpose of his approach, and why she felt no affront to it.

And thus with such thoughts she was deep in thought when she saw, suddenly, the light flash of colour that did not carry with the browns of the winter grasses. She wheeled on her heels for a better look. She glimpsed naught but a brown flash, fleeing into the grass as she approached. It might have been a hare, but Tella had seen the flick of a long tail and knew it was a feline. And a feline so small could only be one thing: a pard cub.

She pitched to a halt at once: a cub would mean a grown female grass cat was afoot. Fear pricked her muscles and started sweat at the back of her ears. She was half-grown and no filly to be chivvied or chased, but she was alone, and not even all the evasive skills Cobalt had taught her could keep her from thinking of blood. And death. Female pards were renown for their aggressiveness in defending their young. She started to step backward.

Too late. Her ears pricked forward to a low, angry yowl beyond the tall waving grass stems before her and her quarters tensed. She froze, her smoky blue eyes flicking frantic over the bases of the tall grass. She arched her neck and held her horn pointed forward, as Cobalt would have done.

"What be your problem, mad beast?! Be off and leave me be!"

A sudden voice. The pard's high scream of rage answered the words. She jerked aside into a bolt at the sound, then planted her forehooves firmly into a halt as she realized that the cat was not threatening her, and had never at any point been after her. A hiss of tearing grass and ripping earth told her the cat had pounced and closed with the unknown speaker. A flurry of snarls and screams broke out.

She nearly screamed herself. It was unheard of for a Plainsdweller to leave a fellow unicorn in danger, but her blood was pounding in her throat. She froze, her muscles trembling painfully in indecision. The screams began to fade, to die off. She hissed through her distended nostrils, made her decision, then braced her trembling muscles and sprang lighter than a gazelle's startle around the tall grass towards the commotion.

The sight brought her to a pitching stop so sudden she nearly slipped head over heels into a tumble. Disentangling her long limbs, she scrambled back staring at the beast that reared over the growling pard. Great green-feathered wings, outstretched, framed a massive lion's body matched with an elegant aquiline head, and forelimbs that ended in cruel curved talons. She was too stunned to think a moment, and then the strange beast spoke again.

"That's one, do you still want more? I'll kill you, cat, though I have no argument with you."

Blood splattered the ground beneath the two, and she saw that the strange beast was bleeding from a slash to one forearm, its hindquarters straining to hold weight in its rearing position. The pard too, was bloody across one side of its ribs, but it held defiant before the winged monster. Tella felt, for a brief moment, admiration at its courage. She glanced warily over at the great green-feathered creature, and the massive wings and powerful frame inflamed curiosity in her.

She knew what it was, of course: a cat-bird, one of the great gryphons from the mountains far in the west. The old songs spoke of them, but no Plainsdweller in living memory had ever seen one of the wingcats. The Lay of the Firebringer came to mind, and she recalled the descriptions of Illishar, the gryphon who had fought at the Battle of Endingfire. From that Lay she knew that the wingcat before her was a male, a tercel, with grass-green wings and a pelt golden as wheat in summer.

She was still shivering, but her curiosity matched speed with her fear, and outran it. She realized now what she had not noticed earlier: the gryphon spoke with a low, musical purr that a unicorn would have been hard-put to match. If she had been in her right mind, she would never have mistaken his voice for a Plainsdweller's. But if the gryphon could speak, it could be spoken to, and perhaps reasoned with as well. She tried.

"You're threatening her cubs."

Her voice did not tremble, to her amusement. But yellow eyes and dark golden eyes both flicked to her at once, and she nearly regretted speaking. The pard screeched in consternation at this new threat, its feral yellow eyes flashing hatred; but the great-winged tercel eyed her in contemplative amusement, though his gaze darkened. His voice was low and rumbling.

"What mean you, little hornling? I see no cubs."

She gathered her words, skittering uneasily around the pair as she spoke, trying not to squeak, "They're in the grasses. I saw one. Back away and she won't press the fight."

The gryphon rumbled, a sound that brought fresh snarling from the distressed pard, "Me? Back away?"

"Or she'll fight you," Tella snorted, casting a meaningful glance at the spitting cat, "To the death."

The pard hissed, and lashed out, the extended claws scant inches from the tercel, who screamed a threat as he reared back further. Tella flattened her ears against the painful sound. The gryphon hissed, his brows furrowing. She watched him weigh the odds. A fight, if there were one, would be heavily one-sided. But it could be costly as well – the enraged female pard could do some serious damage before she died. The wingcat clacked his beak.

"You have a point. Stand down wildcat, I mean your chicks no harm."

Still rearing, he began to step back. Once, twice, thrice, his hind feet shifted, while his huge wings beat to hold his balance. The wind of the massive primaries whipped back Tella's mane and buffeted the thick winter fur of the pard into rivulets. The cat still hissed and spat, but as the gryphon backed off so did her snarling began to die away.

At length the pard looked over at Tella, who scrambled back a few hasty paces. Fear still beat hard in the half-grown mare's throat, thumped fervently at her chest and twisted at the muscles in her legs. She froze with her forelegs braced forward in the classic fight or flight position, her horn lowered and ready.

But the pard eyed her a few seconds longer, and then turned and slunk away into the grasses, favouring her wounded side. Tella watched until she could see no more, and when her heart had slowed and her limbs no longer pricked with sweat, she cast about to find the tercel, and began moving warily towards him.

The gryphon had returned to all fours, and was carefully preening the area about his slashed forearm. He looked up as she approached. She pitched to a halt as the golden eyes poured into hers. The tercel spoke.

"That was a wise move of you, knowing pards and their nature. You must be native here, and I am, indeed, a stranger from afar."

She trembled, though she knew not why. The deep rumbling voice was musical, mesmerizing, powerful. Something pricked at her, an old sense, a warning. She tried but could not touch mind to it. The wingcat spoke on.

"I have flown many leagues, many weeks and months. It has been a long, long journey, and these grasslands are so flat, so unlike the mountains or the woods…"

She could not tear her gaze from his. It was as if she were drowning in a pool of golden, in a lake of dark amber shades. She blinked, tried to shake her head sluggishly, tried to speak. From somewhere far, far away she knew that the tercel was advancing on her. Her thoughts began to slip away, much as she grasped at them. She saw only intense eyes, twin dark golden orbs, each encircled with a band of bright yellow that framed a darker iris. She heard the tercel's voice as if from a distance.

"And though I have little hope to find home here, or hope, I do know I mean to survive…"

Silence dropped over her, sharp as the shade of a fast-moving cloud. The gryphon had quieted. She grasped at the sudden emptiness, struggled to organize her thoughts. Then the dark eyes swerved abruptly, broke contact. She stumbled back a step, gasped as breath came back to her, and felt sweat starting all across her pelt. She had not known she had been holding her breath. Her muscles were hurting, as if she had just been hauling a heavy load. Or fighting one. Her ears pricked forward at the gryphon's voice, and then snapped flat against her head.

"Forgive me."

She looked sidelong at him as she steadied her breathing, wary and uncertain, one ear cocked upward while the other lay flat. The tercel was settled on his haunches, his wings folded against his ribs, staring aside at the ground. She focused on the curve of his shoulder, trying not to catch the glint of his eyes again.

"You did me a good deed, little unicorn, and I meant to do you ill. But I shall not. I seem to forget honour, but not yet, perhaps. Not here."

He rose and turned away, his powerful cat's frame moving with sinuous ease. Light glinted across his pelt, flashed emerald over feathers the length of her shanks. He spread his wings. She saw, as the light caught the length of pelt beneath the green plumage, how the ribs protruded from his side, and the skin stretched taut over well-defined hip bones. He was not starving as yet, but he was near to it. She stared at the furrows his talons left on the hard winter earth, and shuddered as she thought of what he might have done to her.

"Fare you well, small one. I will do you this one good thing, for what you have done me. May we both survive the years to come."

He could have killed her, to stave his own hunger…but he had not done anything. He had chosen not to. She forced her stubborn, frozen legs into a leap, and pitched to a halt with a snort as words tumbled from her lips.

"Hist! If you are hunting, you could try north of here, close by the Hallow Hills. Deer and boar favour that area."

His eyes sprang up to meet hers, surprise glinting in the golden pupils. The surprise deepened into amusement. She watched as the tercel folded back his wings, his gaze sidelong as he glanced at her. She tried for words again, determined not to let her fear or her astonishment overtake her.

"But be careful you do not hazard the Hallow Hills themselves. The Moondancers dwell there - they are a warlike tribe, unlike the Plainsdwellers," she swallowed under the golden, raptor-like eyes, "They may not tolerate a wingcat so near."

The tercel threw back his head and laughed, a raw, throaty peal of mirth that set her skin pricking again. The gryphon shook his feathers out as his golden eyes settled squarely on her. For a long moment he was silent - silent like one weighing the sincerity of word and intent. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

"Thank you," his eyes met hers again, but there was little of the earlier bright intensity in them, "I find little such kindness these days. I…my name is Wirramishar. I came from the mountains far south, beyond the woods of the Pans."

Her breath caught in her throat. She remembered herself in time to bow, politely, "My name is Tella, of the Free People of the Plains."

"Well met, Tella," the gryphon lowered his head, a movement every bit as solemn as her bow, "I see I shall be in your debt a little longer."

He spread his wings, "I will take your word as it is, and I will take my leave of you now. Fare you well, unicorn."

The wind threw back her mane as the gryphon leapt to take flight. The raven feather and the eagle plume flew out with the long mane hairs, brushing wildly over her neck and withers. She shifted back a step as she snorted and shook dust from her eyes, and then called after him as he brought his wings down once, gaining altitude.

"Fare you well too, Wirramishar! May Alma keep you!"

She watched him rise in lazy spirals, drifting, until he was nothing more than a small dark speck in the sky and she had to crane her muzzle all the way back to see him. A minute longer and he was gone. Tella let her head drop and shook the stiffness out of her neck at having stared so long. She snorted. She had come out alone to consider one thing, and now she had another to think on as well. But she felt no regret. Only a wild, secret awe bloomed in her, an untamed joy, as if she had just encountered something strange, but remarkable – as if she had experienced an event both uncommon and wondrous.

And indeed, perhaps she had.


End file.
